Brother Cadfael 12: The Raven in the Foregate

long conflict for the crown without loss, no matter which of the two claimants finally triumphed.
    Ralph welcomed midnight with deep and genuine gratitude for the mercies shown forth upon men, and not least upon Ralph Giffard.
    Benet slipped into the abbey church by the parish door, and made his way softly forward towards a spot where he could look through into the choir, and see the monks in their stalls, faintly lit by the yellow sheen of candles and the red glow of the altar lamps. The chanting of psalms came out into the nave muted and mild. Here the lighting was dim, and the cloaked assembly of the Foregate laity shifted and stirred, kneeled and rose again, every man nameless. There was a little while yet to wait before Matins began at the midnight hour, the celebration of God made flesh, virgin-born and wonderful. Why should not the Holy Spirit engender, as fire kindles fire and light, the necessary instrument of flesh no more than the fuel that renders its substance to provide warmth and enlightenment? He who questions has already denied himself any answer. Benet did not question. He was breathing hard with haste and excitement, and even elation, for risk was meat to him. But once within here, in the obscurity that was at once peopled and isolated, he lost himself in awe, like the child he would never quite outgrow. He found himself a pillar, rather to brace himself by than to hide behind, and laid a hand to the cold stone, and waited, listening. The matched voices, soft as they were, expanded to fill the vault. The stone above, warmed by the music, reflected its arching radiance to the stone below.
    He could see Brother Cadfael in his stall, and moved a little to have him more clearly in view. Perhaps he had chosen this spot purely to have in his sights the person most near to him in this place, a man already compromised, already tolerant, and all without any intent, on either part, to invade another's peace of mind. Only a little while, thought Benet, and you shall be free of me. Will you regret it, now and then, if you never again hear of me? And he wondered if he ought to say something clearly, something to be remembered, while there was still time.
    A soft voice, just avoiding the sibilance of a whisper, breathed in his ear: "He did not come?"
    Benet turned his head very slowly, entranced and afraid, for surely it could not be the same voice, heard only once before, and briefly, but still causing the strings of his being to vibrate. And she was there, close at his right shoulder, the veritable the unforgettable she. A dim, reflected light conjured her features out of the dark hood, broad brow, wide-set eyes, deeply blue. "No," she said. "He didn't come!" And having answered herself, she heaved a great sigh. "I never thought he would. Don't move - don't look round at me."
    He turned his face obediently towards the parish altar again. The soft breath fanned his cheek as she leaned close. "You don't know who I am, but I know you."
    "I do know you," said Benet as softly. Nothing more, and even that was uttered like a man in a dream.
    Silence for a moment; then she said: "Brother Cadfael told you?"
    "I asked."
    Silence again, with some soft implication of a smile in it, as though he had said something to please her, even distract her for a moment from whatever purpose had brought her here to his side.
    "I know you, too. If Giffard is afraid, I am not. If he won't help you, I will. When can we two talk?"
    "Now!" he said, suddenly wide awake and grasping with both hands at an opportunity for which he had never dared to hope. "After Matins some people will be leaving, so may we. All the brothers will be here until dawn. As good a time as any!"
    He felt her warm at his back, and knew when she shook softly with silent, excited laughter. "Where?"
    "Brother Cadfael's workshop." It was the place he knew best as a possible solitude, while its proprietor kept the Christmas vigil here in the church. The brazier in the hut was turfed down to burn slowly through the night, he could easily blow it into life again to keep her warm. Clearly he could not take advantage of this delicate young being's partisan loyalty so far as to put her in peril, but at least this once he could speak with her alone, feast his eyes on her grave, ardent face, share with her the confidences of allies. Something to remember lifelong, if he never saw her again.
    "By the south door, through the cloisters," he said. "No one will be there to see us